Day One

Saturday 10 October - Dungeness to Rye

After bright sunshine as I ate my breakfast at the b&b, the clouds built as I strode towards my first appointment – with the sea.

At the tip of the shingle peninsula, I ritually dipped my toes into the surf, one for me and one for my mum. The next time I dip them in this manner will be either at Sandwood Bay or Kearvaig Bay, on the grounds that trying to do it at Cape Wrath would be suicidal.

From sea level I climbed the shingle bank and walked past the “new” lighthouse (the fifth to be built), which became necessary when the older of the existing lights was obstructed by the first nuclear power station. So now Dungeness has two lighthouses and two nuclear power stations, one of each in operation and one pensioned off. To serve the lighthouses, the power stations, the coastguard cottages and the shanty town of cottages, there is a web of concrete roads. The power stations don't in any sense spoil the area. Their ungainly appearance, and the constant hum of the “live” station, are entirely in keeping with the end-of-the-world atmosphere of the place.

The hardest part of this walk came first, with an hour and a half of trudging along the shingle. There is no real alternative here. Inland from the protective bank of shingle there is... more shingle! Arranged in unequal humps and hollows, the ground away from the sea is even more difficult to walk along than the edge. And anyway, the route is trammelled for most of the way by requirement to keep out of the Lydd firing ranges. Had there been firing scheduled, I would have had to take a triangular inland course, as the coast and a chunk of the sea comes within the danger zone. But there were no red flags today, so I plodded on.

I wasn't completely alone. Dotted along the shore were sea fishermen (yes, all men), each with an encampment of tents and large umbrellas providing, I presume, shelter for extra tackle and lunch.
Following the gently curving shoreline, I caught my first sight of the cliffs at Fairlight, several miles beyond the point where I would turn right to follow the River Rother up to Rye. At fairly frequent intervals I stepped over water running out of the shingle bank into the sea. Water from streams or ditches drains (a considerable distance) through the shingle.

Eventually, wet sand appeared on the seaward side of the shingle. At first this was intermittent and then continuous – I had reached the much friendlier walking surface of Camber Sands. An hour or more after leaving the fishermen behind, I had to get used to company again. The weather was perking up, with the sun driving away the clouds, and Camber was doing what it does best, hosting paddlers and sand-castle builders and wind-surfers.

I made a brief diversion along the road through Camber. This is not an inspiring place, consisting of a field of tin boxes – not caravans mostly, but rather those huts on two small wheels which are dropped into place and never move again – and a couple of rather sad shops. It was good to get back to the sea and eat my lunch perched in the dunes.

Two horse riders, accompanied by an enthusiastic dog, cantered and trotted up and down the beach as I neared the mouth of the Rother. A fishing boat, with the usual honour-guard of raucous seagulls, was just entering the river as I turned to walk inland. I passed the village of Rye Harbour on the opposite bank. This is not a pretty place – apart from the crumbling Martello Tower the most prominent features are some huge tin sheds and a chemical works – but family connections and fond memories blot out the eyesores.

When I first caught sight of Rye, it hardly seemed to be on a hill at all. But everything is relative and, as I walked towards it across the dead-flat regained marsh, the town reared up in front of me, the pointed tower of the church capping the roofscape. A surprisingly large number of fishing boats still line the river below the town

The streets were familiar to me from frequent visits, so I soon found my way to my lodgings near the station.

Later, as I roamed the streets in search of a coffee, I had a treat - Lamb House was unexpectedly open (unexpected by me; the National Trust probably remembered that it opens on Saturday afternoons). I had a quick rootle round the Henry James and EF Benson memorabilia, but the real treat was the garden. Who would believe that you could lose yourself for a quarter of an hour in a domestic garden in a place the size of Rye. It's all nooks and corners, a bench for every vista. Sheer delight.

As I left, the current tenants were returning. The deal is that they get to live in a lovely house in a picturesque town, as long as they put up with riffraff like me infesting the ground floor for two afternoons a week. It's a good billet despite this drawback, and I believe the National Trust have little trouble finding tenants.